


daily

by orchestra



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gentle Lovin, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 02:33:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17417375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchestra/pseuds/orchestra
Summary: mikleo takes a trip through town on what should otherwise be a Typical Sunday Afternoon. but it aint. and boy does he have a lot on his mind.





	daily

**Author's Note:**

> howdy doody. i haven't written in what 5 years? i woke up from a nap on my plane ride back to my second home and thought, huh, i'm going to write, and so i did, and then continued on the train ride from the airport, and here i am finishing it up. 5 years of latent writing dealt in 5 hours  
> also i am literally 10 hours into the game so forgive me i know close to nothing about these boys i am simple and i am really jiving from the unspoken bond skit so please enjoy

It is two sixteen when the tram arrives at the square. Mikleo finds it uncanny how, despite the hold up four stops ago involving five teenage kids, their geoboards, and an apparent malfunction of the auto-buffering yellow zone, he is exactly on time as he has, perhaps miserably, planned. Miserably is a strong adverb and a bit unforgiving on the context of the matter. Let’s go with typically, because none of this is any bit more out of the ordinary than the typical Sunday afternoon.

He finds his left hand clasped across his face as if the face mask isn’t doing enough to filter the brute winter air, and it isn’t, frankly. The winters are cold and Mikleo can feel the stitching of his pant legs along his calves. Little bumps line the curve of his cheekbone, braille of his nerves and dehydration. He’s ashamed of himself. He’d left his water bottle at the lab, and now he’s far too committed to about-face now. On the other hand, he loves that bottle, and if anyone so much as thinks to steal it or his Spiritcrest Online decal, he knows just who to jump. Mikleo reflexively hops a good inch to avoid the slight chip in the curb. There is another uncanniness in some of the stark similarities between that one blonde twerp and the au couture bobblehead in the recent movie he’d watched. Sequels have had their theatric improvements but the consensus of two over a punchbowl of perfectly popped pink peppercorn popcorn was that the first was better. Ten years in the making, Mikleo thinks with a shake of his head. And then, with another shake, perhaps miserably this time, Mikleo sees a third uncanniness.

Uncanniness. Is he using that word correctly right now? He slows, pinches the bridge of his nose, momentarily cursing these new glasses. The orange hand starts blinking rapidly and Mikleo is caught at the crosswalk with a woman and her large chocolate brown oh fuck Mikleo trips sideways as the poodle’s tongue goes for his right boot. The woman tugs on the leash, giggles something about her girl being so excited for her second walk today! and Mikleo forces an eye-smile while his lips wane. This is something about the city he is still not quite used to. The intense engagement of impromptu conversation and the accompanying dogs. Can dogs smell fear? Mikleo scratches his nose, dips his head a bit and starts for it as the light turns a welcoming yellow.

Not that Mikleo wants to be wary of impromptuness. He’s gotten better with the dance, and he’d like to receive some credit for it too. Just two months ago, he’d been involved in much clamor at a book club with strangers. Mikleo was in his element. The wine was crisp and so buttery and fruity. Definitely in his element. It was so fun, he thought, so wintery warm and wise and would he have ever guessed that he could engage in friendly debate, let’s call it, on the significance of the choice of color in critically acclaimed titles? Mikleo had believed that color choice was impressionable but not exacted. Yeah, sure, the red scarf was a definite euphemism for the death that awaited the protagonist for all her transgressions in the name of justice, but green-tiled rooves? It’s not that deep, he’d said. His partner, who Mikleo could only have defined by the length of her luscious hair, was fiery in her counter and incredibly dicey with her words. Mikleo can still feel the whap he’d received on his shoulder, and the warmth of the introductory message full of an interesting ratio of flames to blushing smile emojis. He grins at the memory. An unconventional modern step towards friendship, or something.

He sticks close around the bend, and by now, weaving through the crowds and streams of people has become a part of his nature. Mikleo chances a glance into the utility store. He can feel the aromatherapy within. With a flick of his wrist he sees that he’s still to his timetable, which leaves him an appropriate amount of time for a discourse for pens and small snacks. Also, he saw that his bangs were freezing over. Mikleo sniffles in relief when he pulls the glass door open and is engulfed in citrus-tinted warmth.

There isn’t much, he continues to think, to small shopping trips like this, but he acknowledges that he does this more when he’s feeling antsy. Mikleo fiddles with the sea green gel pen in his hand, starts twirling it out of habit. He drinks in the messages from strangers in this small city. Things like: be happy; you’re perfect; I passed!; it takes time; wheeeeeee; You Deserve That Pie; a string of numbers; T wuz here; i hope you find the love you seek. He draws a smiley face. It’s crooked and bumps into a doodle of something that might be a normin with raisins for eyes. Mikleo wishes he had more to contribute to the city chatter than just this lopsided smiley face. But it’s all he can afford right now, and so is this one sea green pen, so he slips through a horde of shaking scarves and grey suitcases towards the register. Mikleo also understands that he only engages in intensive self-reflection when at a liberty for time and topsy-turvy anxiety. Why is he feeling nervous? A typical Sunday is what he wants to call it, but since nine forty this morning when he’d received the text, he’s felt much less certain.  He grabs a pack of chocolate oatmeal cookies from the display basket and resists the flannel wall. He’s endlessly grateful for the lab’s pay and his dependable roommate to make this new life that much more affordable, but Mikleo feels he’s been slipping in his resolve as of late and wants to refocus on bigger investments. Like, getting the Switch to play Ultimate with his roommate.

Mikleo bumps the glass door open with his hip. Look at him. Roommate. What an understatement of the century. He knows far better than to whittle down their relationship to one of blasé cohabitation. Mikleo fumbles with a glove, swerves a sharp left, towards a familiar clamor of metal trays slamming and grill tops sizzling. Because, let’s be frank with each other as Mikleo has been dodging his obvious, miserably predictable predicament since the first paragraph, reader: Mikleo is madly in love with his roommate of eleven months in their new four hundred seventy two square foot studio; of twenty three years in shared bunk beds in a town, to scale, the size of their new studio; of his heart since time immemorial. Mikleo gags. He’s taking back control of his inner monologues now, thanks very much.

So now that Mikleo is back on the same page with himself, his shoulders slope a little to the right. He’s tired. He’s been madly in love for how long now? (Since time immemorial!) (Shut up.) And while time heals all wounds or something, time also allows for harrowing realizations of how inept he has been in bringing this love to fruition. Life has blessed him with nearly twenty-four years of happy and sad days with a person he could cherish and protect with every bit of his growing, aching heart. Life has even blessed him with a year-long excavation escapade with his love truly. How the hell could he have messed that up? They’d even found a beautifully preserved ring and brooch of the eighth century. He’d failed the ancestral Records. He should be thrown into a catacomb. But not without buying the mapo curry buns first. Five hundred gald, she chirrups, and Mikleo receives them with the deepest gratitude. He will narrowly escape his cursed death, at least one more day, with these babies.

Mikleo has adapted to the whole walking and eating trend of the city. Back where he’s from, his grandpa would have smacked him upside the head, make him drop his sandwich, then say see, this is exactly why, Mikleo. It really isn’t that often that he’d encounter a smoking pipe to the chin, but Mikleo knew better than to argue that. He remembers fondly when it was an ice cream cone once and Sorey couldn’t breathe out of his nose for an hour without grossly tasting vanilla in the back of his throat. Mikleo snorts then chokes on some tofu.

The name sits heavy in his mind. Sorey. Sorey and Mikleo had finally left their town, together, to go on a brigade with a team of expert archaeologists, together, and decided, together, to live in a city where they could pursue work in the lab and build towards discoveries that could help in the future transformation and sustainability of ecosystems around the world. Together. Mikleo’s calves hit a cold bench and he plops down. They are both so equally obsessed with their work, and Mikleo with Sorey, that Mikleo truly wonders when he can afford to care for himself. His friend (if we could even call the rather hefty and uniquely tattooed butcher at their local supermarket with intuition seemingly as sharp as the prosciutto blade that) had asked Mikleo the same question one day. Mikleo hadn’t realized until that moment just how cold meat markets are, and how cold he could be to someone genuinely concerned for him, with a dismissive smile.

Mikleo groans. This is way too much introspection and it’s not even three in the afternoon. He fiddles with his phone. He opens the text. Of course, it was from Sorey. And of course, all it says is: Let’s talk.

Mikleo closes his eyes and begins to catalogue the events that occurred over the past few days for potential Topics to Talk About. A holiday dinner with that blonde twerp Edna, fancy yet feisty Lailah, Zaveid (he’d muscled his way out of the evening shift), Mikleo’s new friend Dezel from the record store, and Alisha and Rose, Sorey’s new friends from the gym. Mikleo tries to stop the twitching in his eyes. Dezel had brought a few records to appease the mish mosh crowd and was probably everybody’s star that night with how tenderly he treated the disc and music transitions. There was, thankfully, little bloodshed between Zaveid and Lailah. Edna was merciless in the criticisms of Mikleo and Sorey’s matching holiday sweaters. Rose packed a mean punch and Alisha, as beautiful as ever, brought the most bangin’ mashers the two have ever had. Except, in the excitement of it being her first friends-only holiday party, she’d brought an entire twelve-quart tub of mashed potatoes. Mikleo remembers Sorey trying to keep an arm’s length away from Zaveid and his tinsel, while somehow maintaining a close distance to Rose with her jokes and acrobatic tricks. All right, next day. Leftovers. So much mashed potatoes stashed into their fridge and freezer. Also, an obscene stack of beer and wine bottles licked clean. The twitching intensifies and he knows that, to smooth the process of analysis and memory processing and finally relieve himself of these damn nightmares, he’ll have to acknowledge what had happened towards the end of that holiday dinner. Mikleo unsticks himself from the bench. He should keep walking. 

The morning following, amidst all the reshuffling to reach his carton of milk behind the Tupperware Tower (Mikleo had noticed Sorey working diligently on it, an ode to the twenty-third night, spent at Marlind? he could only wish), Mikleo had felt something amiss. In this sequence, give or take, Mikleo saw: Sorey miss the mug entirely and splash day-old coffee on his slippers; Sorey dump blackish egg whites on his plate followed by an unopened can of butter beans; Sorey deck into the kitchen counter as he leaned over to remove a nice metal spoon he’d accidentally thrown into the trash. Mikleo scratches his nose. The last one’s less a shocker and seems more a usual Tuesday blunder. His fingers splay again. Above all, Mikleo noted that not once had Sorey looked him in the eye for more than a second of conversation, mere algorithmic yes/no/hm’s. No, it really had not been the typical Tuesday.

Eleven minutes until the promised time at the coffee shop that houses their favorite canelé and chocolate chip cookie. He gets a kick out of watching Sorey marvel the dark chocolate discs embedded in that delicately sweet dough, dip the cookie in a cup, lose a significant chunk of cookie, then beam, saying he loves chocolate in his coffee, and Mikleo knows, that’s why he always gets two more to go when Sorey’s busy bussing.

Ah, damn. He’s so in love.

But to point to the single event of the new year would be a blunder and Mikleo knows this. It’s so much more than the cusp between Monday and Tuesday. He takes a nervous turn and decides to stand in front of the bookstore instead of arriving early like usual and grabbing counter seats. It likely has less to do with Monday, and more to do with Mondays, swaying groggily in front of the bathroom mirror in brief and boxer, patterned, and playful jabs and jeers of who’s going to be the first in the lab today; Tuesdays, massively indulging in the new food group of tacos discovered upon moving to the city; Wednesdays, simply lying upside down on the couch, nose-deep in the chapters; Thursdays, swiping clean their snack pantry during the weekly themed movie marathon; Fridays, desperate crunching for deadlines (it’s your fault we went for the fifth one; you don’t even like zombies that much!); Saturdays, indulging, briefly, in moments to themselves, and then dinner together, always somewhere new; and Sundays, reflecting on the week and wondering what will happen next over coffee, cookies and canelé. In the spirit of newfound independence and the perseverance of youth so deeply profound in Sorey’s laughter and Mikleo’s sighs and the simple joy they share, Mikleo has found that he has fallen for his best friend, his partner, his one and only, all over again; daily; endlessly. But indeed, Mikleo thinks as his reflection wavers, cuts and distorts with a man’s languid flip through a glossy interior design magazine, this is not the typical Sunday. There has been a lot of reflection. What will happen next?

The smell of someone’s coffee wakes Mikleo from his thoughts, and from the looks of it, the man on the other side of the glass had caught on to his distracted and intense gaze, so now would be a good time to dip. Twenty-four years and Mikleo has understood happiness and love in their most distilled forms. He’d survived. Thrived, even, maybe. And now he takes a moment to stare up at the clouds for the first time today. Why, after all these years, does he feel so desperate to pull Sorey in? Then immediately after, Mikleo wonders: what’s to say this will go on forever?

He sighs. He should know better than to make assumptions of any degree. Sorey deserves much more than Mikleo’s mildly panicked thoughts. More-so than the eleven months of immense self-discovery, they have years of understanding, patience and conversation. They also have years of fighting over differences in interpretation and action, sometimes value, but there is always understanding, patience and conversation. Mikleo knows they would not be here without the guidance and support they gave each other. Mikleo slips off his gloves because he feels his hands are stupid clammy. Their days are so novel, and Tuesday was different, but history is immutable, and happiness sanctified. Mikleo laughs at himself. Was he a poet and didn’t even know it? That sounds more like it.

One thing’s for sure, Mikleo thinks down the final stretch. And that’s these buns are now frozen cold.

And alas, here he is, in front of the shop door, mask now off, and Sorey’s sitting there waving at him, in the usual seat at the counter with the barista who fancies her berets, and he’s already got a canelé on a plate for Mikleo and a cookie for himself and Mikleo wants to jump into those outstretched arms. Dear reader, if you are anywhere along the edge of your seat or close to closing your browser as I am to chucking this pen, hang on, because our dear protagonist has just flung the door open and his glasses have fogged up completely as Sorey laughs and says, “Mikleo, I love you.”

Ah, damn. "Me too."

**Author's Note:**

> i had just recently bought zestiria to catch up on my tales of collection and to no one's surprise i have fallen deeply for mikleo and the tenderness between these two knuckleheads. i love them deeply. do people still write for this fandom? i sure hope so and yall better get ready for the kudos i am about to send on your works four years later.


End file.
